


Red Eye

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 04:15:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2799191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seijuurou’s presence has been like drinking a red eye when he’s running on empty,</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Eye

**Author's Note:**

> akamibu but not really whoops
> 
> day 1 of (again) 30 day cheesy tropes challenge by ghiraher/saintanick on tumblr

Somehow Reo isn’t all that surprised that their motley crew is well-suited to running this coffee shop, right in the heart of a slow-pulsed college town. He’d always thought they’d do well enough in some kind of business or other, if only because Makoto and Eikichi would always keep them afloat financially somehow—he and Teppei could be charming and Kotarou would come up with ridiculous ideas or something; that fantasy had never really gotten off the ground. But then again, this is a business and they’re making more than enough money and they’re comfortable and they’re all together, and it might even be better than anything he could imagine.

Makoto and Eikichi do handle the finances well, although they bicker more than they’re doing any sort of math. Teppei’s not only good with the customers but with the ancient espresso machines that they’d bought with the initial capital. They break a lot, but Teppei somehow always coaxes them back to life, metal phoenixes rising from the burnt coffee grounds. Granted, they wouldn’t break so often if it wasn’t for the way Kotarou manhandles them, slamming down the knobs and buttons and shoving in more grounds than the thing can hold and yet he gets away with it because the coffee he makes is strong and smooth and brings out much more from the beans than any of them (they’ve all tried, even with Kotarou walking them through the process, and failed)—he’s got magic coffee hands or something, some kind of magical electricity running through his fingers or something. Reo, of course, is a pretty face, smiling for the customers, but he also makes mean pastries, fruit tarts and chocolate-dipped biscotti and muffins with crisp, flat heads and soft, flaky croissants. They’ve all found their own niche inside this place and they’ve all long since grown used to the smell of coffee, clinging to them even when they go home and change, filtering through their skin as if they’re made of paper filters and their veins are glass pots (at least they’re not like percolators).

And then there are the customers—in a small town like this they get a lot of regulars, and remembering the names they give for the drinks are easy, especially when (as so many do) they order the same thing day after day and perform the same routine, scouting for an open table or seat somewhere in the same manner and claiming it, sitting and relaxing into their own sort of routines that fit like gears into the clock of King’s Coffee Shop and Bakery.

There’s Kouki, a shy little thing who sips his black tea with honey carefully even after it has to have cooled off. He’s always reading a book, and changes it up every week—he’s not a particularly slow reader but he likes to go over passages again and again, flipping pages back and forth and back and forth. Shintarou, very pretty with a discerning frown, always chooses a small table by himself near the back where he spreads out his work (some kind of chemistry thing, at least from what Reo’s seen in tiny glimpses walking back) and absently runs an always-bandaged finger around the rim of his mug of sugar-saturated coffee. Masaaki is a professor with smile lines around his mouth; he prefers tea and a sandwich (half of which he eats before he tackles his stack of papers to grade, half of which he saves as a reward for the end). Taiga, whose eyebrows are even weirder than Makoto’s, has befriended Eikichi over their mutual love of sandwiches overstuffed with meat and leans on the end of the bar to chat with him about workout regimens. Shinji is probably Reo’s least favorite; somehow he almost always manages to get in the way when Reo’s cleaning dishes and he’s broken half of their best set of mugs and saucers, the ones with the pink and gold trim. Makoto’s friend Kentarou sometimes comes by and naps in one of the chairs—about once an hour he wakes up and buys another black eye (although its effects are negligible even if Reo’s being as optimistic as he can) so they can’t really kick him out, especially when Makoto insists on charging him full price. Yuuya always busy a cappuccino and nothing to eat, but when he brings along his brother they buy a few fruit tarts.

And then there are Reo’s particular favorites: Atsushi, the incredibly tall biscotti fanatic who asks Reo to sit with him on his break sometimes (Atsushi ends up dunking his last few biscotti into Reo’s coffee and Reo doesn’t mind), and Riko, who is now the only one allowed to use the pink-and-gold-trimmed dishware (she’s careful and she finds it as beautiful as Reo does), and Chihiro, who reads every day but unlike Kouki brings a different book every time (his goal seems to be to finish all the novels in the universe or something).

And then there’s him. He’d come in on a foggy morning during the tail end of last semester’s finals week but his short red bangs didn’t curl away from his forehead in the humidity, even inside the coffee shop. He’d stood unblinkingly, almost motionless, in front of the menu for more than a few seconds.

“He’s probably getting a cortado,” Makoto had said snidely before wandering into the back again.

Reo would admit to enjoying snarky remarks about passerby almost as much as Makoto, but not about this guy. There was something about the set of his shoulders that demanded respect despite his average height and build—and it had very little to do with his brilliant red hair different colored eyes. And then he’d stepped up.

“Could I have a small coffee?”

His voice was light, like a peculiar sort of roast—not bad, not hesitant or quaky, but different. He’d paid with a very fancy credit card and Reo had tried not to scrutinize it too closely before handing it back and pouring out some coffee.

“That’s a lovely horse,” he’d said, pointing at a framed photo on the wall.

At first Reo had found the photos terribly cheesy, but by this point he’d admit they did liven up the place a little bit.

“It is, isn’t it?” he said.

And just like that he was roped into a half-hour conversation about different breeds of horses, which this man (who introduced himself as Seijuurou) managed to make sound much more interesting than it should have been. And then it ended as abruptly as it began, Seijuurou checking the expensive watch on his wrist and excusing himself.

He’d come back a few more times to talk with Reo, and their conversations had been very polite and very odd and it’s a while before Reo puts his finger on it. It’s as if Seijuurou is practicing conversation, interaction, that beyond what he’s been taught he’s not especially good at real human connection. It’s not like he’s an antisocial nerd the way Shintarou and Chihiro are, caught up in their own worlds and refusing to let others in. It’s more like the locks on his door are tricky, even for someone on the inside with the breadth and depth of knowledge that Seijuurou clearly possesses. Maybe he’s one of those self-made prodigies, or maybe an isolated rich kid, or maybe something else entirely—but even so, the gaps in his socialization make Reo want to clobber whoever or whatever did this to him, even if it was part of Seijuurou’s own inner nature. It’s not pity, but protection mixed with intrigue mixed with an emotional cocktail—and anyway, putting a name to the feelings isn’t the point. Whether Seijuurou needs Reo or not isn’t the point—hell, there may not even be a point.

What matters is that Seijuurou’s presence has been like drinking a red eye when he’s running on empty, a deep and somewhat unsettling jolt. Maybe it’s a crush or maybe it’s something else and again, the name isn’t important, but the connection is. And as comforting and fun as this coffee shop and this town can be, especially with his friends in tow, Reo’s always found it needed a little bit more excitement, a little bit more of a kick.


End file.
